


keep him safe (at bay)

by bloodinfection



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, First Time, Intercrural Sex, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Size Difference, Size Kink, Smut, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, and he didn't get the memo, except geralt's singular brain cell is on strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25090174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: It was unsettling to find himself soothed by the lordling's soft voice. To find that he didn't mind the boy scooting away from the fire and closer tohim.It was entirelyinappropriateto let the little viscount sneak underneath Geralt's heavy cloak and snuggle up against his side.Even more so to do it the next evening and the one after, and to look forward to doing so again, just this one last time.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 746
Collections: Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It), wiedźmin





	keep him safe (at bay)

**Author's Note:**

> jaskier is eighteen in my french vanilla fantasy because in book canon he started university at nineteen but yall know netflix said fuck you to book canon & good for them tbh
> 
> sorry to joey batey for his chest hair erasure )):

There's a gentle rustling of leaves in the distance. 

It's Geralt's fourth night in this clearing. He'd taken care of the wraiths plaguing the land. _Yesterday_. The sun is setting on another day. He—he should be long gone. The wound on his thigh had stopped bleeding. He should be gone.

There's a harsher rustling of leaves in a substantially shorter distance. 

In the morning, he'd knocked—perhaps too heavily—on the manor's door. The slimy old fucker of a viscount had cheated him out of a much larger chunk of pay than Geralt is used to, had spat in his face and called him _Butcher_. The urge to draw his sword had been so overwhelming, he had to back off or risk striking the stingy bastard's head from his shoulders. All he'd wanted was to get away from this place and never step foot near it again.

And yet he couldn't leave. He can't leave.

_"Will you still be there in the evening?"_

_"No."_

He had no reason to stay. The job was done.

_"Please."_

But he did stay. 

The earth here is soft, so Geralt doesn't hear the boy's footsteps, though he certainly knows he's approaching. Slower than usual—and Geralt hates that there is a usual, or maybe he hates to admit it. Briefly, he worries—no, he doesn't _worry_ , but he does wonder if the little lordling is injured. The viscount had seemed just like the man to serve out corporal punishment in excess. Geralt doesn't have feelings about it. He doesn't. 

_"You're the witcher," the boy had said with not a smidge of fear as he'd plopped down on a fallen tree trunk._

_"So I am."_

It'd been a surprise, that first night, coming back to camp with an armful of firewood and finding a snot-nosed noble pacing in frantic circles around Roach. He'd seen the boy back at the keep, flitting about in the background, quiet and rushed. And here he was, out in the woods at night, with mud on his boots. He calmed visibly when Geralt approached him. He _calmed_ , and Geralt knew he couldn't be right in the head.

_"Will you tell me stories?"_

_"No."_

He itches to call out the boy's name. He hadn't let himself taste it on his tongue, had only toyed with it in his mind, at the edge of consciousness and he—it doesn't matter. Geralt doesn't care about the name, or the boy.

_"Do you know the names of the constellations? I could show you."_

_"Hm."_

Geralt didn't talk much that first night. He didn't talk much the second night, or the third. Geralt doesn't—talk much. But the boy does. He'd talked about his life here with disdain and sourness to rival Geralt's own. He'd talked about how he's exploring the surrounding forest for the first time in his life, and how sore he is all over. He'd talked about going off to university soon and breaking free of this nightmare. He'd talked about a great myriad of things that Geralt had no business nor interest knowing, and yet, instead of sending him away, Geralt listened silently and offered nothing in return. 

Nobles have their customs and Geralt has his own. 

It was unsettling to find himself soothed by the lordling's soft voice. To find that he didn't mind the boy scooting away from the fire and closer to _him_. 

It was entirely _inappropriate_ to let the little viscount sneak underneath Geralt's heavy cloak and snuggle up against his side.

Even more so to do it the next evening and the one after, and to look forward to doing so again, just this one last time.

_"Oh. My name's Julian."_

_"Hm."_

Not getting back on the road the second the contract was resolved had been a mistake. 

Geralt doesn't know why he'd stayed. 

He'll leave at first light. 

Hot, burning shame threatens to swallow him whole. He'd _enjoyed_ spending time with another person. A person who smiled at him brightly and talked to him freely. A person he didn't have to pay for their company. 

No.

No, he didn't enjoy it. He doesn't need that. He's not— _lonely_ , because he doesn't _get_ lonely. No matter how warm and secure he'd felt in that embrace by the fire, or how harrowing the emptiness that seems to have settled in his chest for no reason at all. 

The boy is getting close, now. Geralt can just make out his laboured breathing. Perhaps he really is hurt. Geralt should—

He should be back on the road, is what he should do. 

_"Will you tell me your name, witcher?"_

_"No."_

It's unwise to travel at night, he tells himself. He'll just stay until dawn. And if—if _Julian_ comes by, well. This is Geralt's camp. He won't run from a kid. 

_"It's my favourite spot in the woods. I come here to read and, uh. Think."_

_"Hm."_

Geralt isn't necessarily familiar with the full range of human emotion. The trials had sharpened some of them, while dampening others—so Geralt hadn't felt anxious in, oh, a century. But he _fidgets_ where he's sat near the fire, his jaw set tightly, and wonders if, perhaps, he is nervous. 

He's not. 

_Stupid_.

"Witcher." 

The boy— _Julian, Julian is his name_ —has finally, finally emerged from beyond the dense treeline. He's holding onto a thick pine tree like his life depends on it, though maybe he doesn't value his life that much—because then he's stumbling towards Geralt, towards the fire, with an unsteady gait and determination twisting his features. 

Geralt shoots up from his seat lightning-fast. He does not care about an insufferable noble prick that's clearly too deep in his cups to watch his step. He simply doesn't want to deal with him when he inevitably trips face-first into the campfire. That's all. 

And—of course, there are other ways of stopping the boy, but Geralt just. He's assessed the situation, and this is a minimum-effort, maximum-result kind of way. 

"Thank you. _Witcher_." Julian giggles around the word, shakes with it where he's pressed against Geralt's side. His hands are braced on Geralt's chest. They look delicate. Fragile. Thin wrists he could snap without much effort. Long fingers that nearly reach his bared throat. 

Geralt is loathe to release him from his arms, and Julian seems—amenable to staying in them. He clings to Geralt's form as if he were a tree trunk, except. 

Well, except that he's not.

Fleetingly, Geralt lets himself rest his cheek on top of the boy's head. His hair is damp, like he'd just bathed. Geralt gets a lungful of the sweet scent of his soap, the wine on his breath, before he makes himself step to the side, expression stern. 

It feels good to touch. _No._ It feels good to be touched. _Stop._ It's dangerous, how much Geralt wants to stay close. _Fuck._

"I—you— _hello_." 

The boy slurring so heavily is equally dangerous. 

"I'm, uh. Sorry. About my father."

Geralt nods, just once. He watches Julian wobble slightly; fights the impulse to catch him in his arms again and never let go. 

He's too focused on the flush colouring the boy's cheeks to notice when he's being presented something in silent offering. 

"I hope it's enough," he mumbles.

Geralt reaches out to take the pouch, weighs it in his palm. It's much heavier than his purse had been in a long time. 

"Can't accept this." _Not from you_. 

He tries to hand it back, but Julian shakes his head. 

"Don't worry, I stole it," he answers, dead serious. Geralt can't help a smile that forces itself on his lips. He tries very hard to hide it. 

They stand in silence, then. Geralt throws the pouch on the ground near his feet, fully intending to make Julian take it on his way back. The boy's eyes sparkle faintly with an orange glow of the flames.

"You stayed," he says unexpectedly, barely audible. Then, louder, "I can't believe you _stayed_."

And Geralt—he didn't think about this. That he'd need an explanation, a reason for staying other than Julian asking him to. Other than wanting to see him again. Touch him, for the last time. _Fuck, stop it._

"My leg." He swallows as Julian drags his gaze down his body, slower than is necessary. "One of them got me." The wraiths, he means. He's not sure Julian knows that. He's not sure he cares.

"Oh," the boy breathes, eyes fixed somewhere between Geralt's legs, and suddenly he's falling to his knees on the soft ground. " _Oh_ ," as he puts both his hands on Geralt's thighs, mindful of the bandage around one of them. 

Tentative fingers trace the edge of the linen dressing, though there is barely a hint of pressure. Julian could set it on fire for all Geralt cares. The sight of the boy kneeling in the dirt before him— _fuck_. Geralt isn't _lonely_ , but it's been a while since he could afford a brothel, and Julian sways even on his knees, his pink cheeks and pinker lips hovering so very close to Geralt's cock, and it's—

Enticing. 

_Stop it. Stop it._

"Stop it," he croaks, his throat feeling tight. He wants to step back, but his legs won't carry him. Arousal spreads through his veins like a poison, a paralysing venom that renders him incapable of resisting.

Julian looks up at him, eyelashes casting long, fluttering shadows down his cheekbones, and Geralt's never felt weaker. He doesn't _want_ to resist. 

"I—I wanted to give you something else, too." 

_Fuck._ Geralt finds himself nodding slowly. 

"It's, uh. 's me."

His own knees nearly buckle. Julian's hands on his legs are scorching even through the leather. Geralt isn't _lonely_ , but he can't remember the last time someone touched him without meaning harm. 

"Do you want me?" _Yes_. He watches, spellbound, as one of Julian's hands moves up the inside of his thigh. It feels hot as an iron brand. _Fuck. Yes._ "Have me. _Have me_."

There's nothing he's ever wanted as much as he wants to take out his heavy dick and slap it on the boy's face, stuff it all down his throat and—

Geralt's gloved hand looks ungainly and too big when he grasps Julian's chin, as gently as he's able to. He gets the boy to stand up. 

He's—he's not a _boy_ , not truly. He doesn't talk like a green child. Doesn't look the part. When Geralt pulls him to his feet he doesn't even have to bend all that low to kiss him. But he's so _small_ , scrawny from a life of comfort, from never having to work for anything. He's small and his skin is soft and Geralt wants to break him and ruin him and keep him forever. 

They share a chaste kiss, a gentle kiss. Julian's lips are soft like the rest of him, and he tastes of wine too expensive for Geralt to know the name of. 

"You'll freeze," Geralt whispers—although _he's_ burning up alive—when Julian begins to clumsily undress. The tiny buttons don't seem to slip out as they should. Geralt yearns to rip them all off.

"Not if you keep me warm."

Perhaps it's the reason why the kisses grow more heated. Why Julian parts his lips, why he moans wantonly as Geralt grabs a fistful of his ridiculously ornate jacket and pulls him closer. As close as he can with Julian's hands still in the way, still tugging at his clothes. 

"I'd tear them off you if I could."

It's not meant to be spoken out loud. His control is slipping.

Instead of continuing their pursuit, Julian's fingers tangle in Geralt's hair. He lets himself be guided, head tilted down, so Julian can make him look straight into his eyes as he says, 

"Do it. _Do it_."

His control _was_ slipping, but now it's fallen entirely through the cracks of his careful facade, pooling on the ground along with the shreds of Julian's garments. The needlessly small mother-of-pearl buttons fly in all directions. Silk threads snap beneath his hands, cotton rips. Geralt is no animal, no beast, but he feels like one, driven by a horrible ache, only craving to fill the void that's sprung open inside of him. 

_Touch me_ , he wants to beg, but haven't the courage. _Want me_ , a part of him screams, the part that he'd locked away behind years of rejection and pain and solitude. 

When the last of Julian's clothing falls in a heap at their feet, Geralt lets himself touch, praying that his desperation doesn't leak out of him. His palms roam over smooth, unblemished skin, over a hairless chest and freckled arms. With a finger he traces a line from Julian's throat, over his torso, his soft belly, all the way to his little prick, hard and flushed a pretty pink. Julian shivers under the attention, his eyes half-lidded even as gooseflesh tarnishes the canvas of his body. It hurts Geralt to see. He unclasps his cloak, drapes it over Julian's slim shoulders. Nearly goes rabid at the sight of the boy's slight frame swallowed by the thing. 

Geralt has to take a seat. He has to, or he'll collapse on his knees and worship the body before him and that's—he'll just take a seat. 

The fire's flames are still high when he sits down on the log in front of it. They stretch far above Julian's head when Geralt pulls him to straddle his lap, bare thighs spread around Geralt's leather-covered ones. 

"I—" Julian begins, but seems to lose his train of thought as Geralt palms at his cock. His hand easily covers the whole of it, and Geralt's head spins. "I'd, I'd heard the stablehand whisper about it to some kitchen girl, you could—gods, you could have me like a maiden. Will you?" He sounds nearly as desperate as Geralt feels, his blue eyes glazed over. "Will you, witcher?"

 _Yes. Yes._ "No." 

He keeps fondling the cock in his hand, relishing how the curve of it fits in his fist. _Fuck_. He'll just—he'll just make Julian come, and then he'll send him on his way, before the last of his restraint snaps. And it better be soon, with the pleading eyes the boy makes at him and the way his breathing quickens. 

" _Please_." Geralt only moves his hand faster in response, noses along the column of Julian's throat to hide from his gaze. He allows himself a kiss to his fluttering pulse point. "Don't you want to?"

 _Yes, yes, fuck, yes_. "I can't."

His other hand splays at the small of Julian's back. Geralt pulls him closer, closer, until he's a constant, teasing weight on his groin. Until he can only breathe the air they share, and Julian's naked chest presses against Geralt's armour. 

"I want you to," Julian whispers, breathless. His speech is a little clearer, his eyes more focused. Geralt squeezes the arm around him involuntarily. _Close_. "I want you."

And Geralt is a strong man, he is. Which is why he doesn't immediately combust upon hearing the words. He just—he leans back to tug his gloves off. So he can feel warm skin under his fingertips. The way Julian's cock pulses as he gets close. Geralt is strong. 

"You deserve better," he says, or maybe he doesn't, because the words get lost against Julian's flushed neck. 

Julian makes a sound at that—a wounded sound, an appalled sound. Geralt smothers any protests he may have with a kiss.

Geralt is a strong man until he isn't, which is when he lifts Julian up just to sit him back down in the exact spot Geralt had been.

Geralt is a strong man until he drops heavily to his knees between Julian's spread legs, until he gazes up and finds Julian's eyes dark and full of foolish adoration.

"You deserve better," he repeats, and it's the truth. 

Because Julian is so painfully innocent, unsullied—Geralt can't take that from him, he can't, no matter how much he wants to. No matter how hard his dick is in his trousers at the thought of defiling something so pure. 

He doesn't have to _defile_ , he can just—

Lean in. Taste him, a little. Tongue at the swollen head of his prick. Check if it'd feel as good in his mouth as it did in his hand.

It does. 

Julian moans, loud and filthy, when Geralt sucks his cock. He's not very accomplished in the art of it, but Julian—fuck, Julian gasps like he'd found salvation, thrusts his narrow hips in tight little moves like he really wants to halt them but can't help himself. Geralt closes his eyes and lets himself be used. Lets himself enjoy it, even if he shouldn't. Despair forces his hand to rub his own cock. He could come like this, he thinks, when the head of Julian's prick threatens the clutch of his throat, though doesn't slide beyond it. Fuck, he's so _small_.

"Tell me your name," he hears as though through a haze. Julian's voice shakes. " _Please_ , witcher."

Geralt doesn't want to pull off. He doesn't want Julian to know his name. All he wants is to have the boy come down his throat and to hold him after, even if for just a moment. 

He's not sure which one of them grows more desperate faster, except that he fears it's him. A moan rumbles through him, stopped only by the cock in his throat, though he doubts Julian would miss it either way. 

Geralt isn't lonely, he's just finding that he really enjoys sucking cock. Dealing pleasure instead of his usual pain. Hearing Julian falling apart above him, whimpering like the sweet little thing he is. Slim fingers combing gently through his hair. 

Something almost chokes him, makes his chest tight. Geralt really wants to believe it's the prick in his mouth. 

"Stop, stop," Julian breathes, barely a whisper, but Geralt's blood turns to ice in his veins. 

He pulls away, scrambles backwards on his knees. Nearly falls into the fire. Fuck, he deserves to get burned if—

"I want you to come, too. And I want your name. And you, naked. Not in that order."

Geralt would fall to his knees if he weren't kneeling already. A horrible chaos rings in his ears for a heartbeat, two, before it quietens.

He didn't—

But he'd _thought_ —

He should go. He should leave.

"I should leave." His voice is strained. He clears his throat. 

Julian looks at him, confused. Sober. Geralt turns away, his eyes shut. 

"Witcher."

Flames lick cruelly at the back of his armour, blistering hot. He's earned that. He shouldn't want—

"Please look at me. _Please_."

Julian has slid to kneel in front of him. Closer. There are cold hands on his cheeks and a warm mouth pressing against his lips. A forehead resting against his own, then. Without opening his eyes, Geralt lunges forward to wrap his arms tightly around Julian. They tumble to the ground, Geralt's face tucked safely against Julian's shoulder. Safety. That's what he needs. Safety and warmth and kindness. 

He shouldn't want it. He doesn't deserve it. 

Maybe Geralt isn't a strong man after all, because he lifts his head to steal a desperate kiss, and another after that. 

Julian yanks at a buckle, then tugs at a sleeve like that'd make it come off. 

"Please," he gasps, and Geralt isn't strong at all. 

He undresses quickly, efficiently. The dressing on his thigh comes away bloody, but the wound underneath is already half-healed. He feels Julian's eyes on him when he pulls his trousers down.

Geralt stands in an unfamiliar forest utterly naked, his armour piled on the ground, swords nearly out of reach. Julian takes his hand and he feels _safe_.

He leans down to steal another kiss—and he does have to steal them, because they are not his to have—but Julian shakes his head. 

"Your name, now."

Geralt looks between the boy's reddened face and his pretty little cock and makes a reckless, awful decision. 

"Geralt."

Julian inhales sharply. His fingers stretch out to trace softly at Geralt's abdomen, and the mere touch to his bare skin makes him shudder so violently he nearly jerks away. 

" _Geralt_ ," Julian repeats faintly, a bright smile tugging at his lips. "Well then, _Geralt_ , only one thing left on my list."

His bedroll is already spread out, reminding him only that this is the fourth gods-forsaken night in this place, a night that is entirely unnecessary. He could've been far, far away by now. Away from things he can't have and those he shouldn't. 

Still, he lays Julian down on that bedroll, not finding it within himself to stop kissing him once he starts. There are hands touching him all over, his shoulders, his back, his chest. They catch on every raised scar, every dip where a chunk of his flesh is missing, but don't pull away. It's like a bout of electricity, a shock of ecstasy each time Julian touches a new place. Places that probably hadn't known a tender touch in years, only the sting of a sharp claw or sharper teeth. Geralt feels like he'll tremble out of his skin.

Julian is still wearing the cloak around his shoulders; it fans out underneath him, drowns him in a sea of black. Geralt thinks about Julian's scent clinging to the folds of fabric, and then he thinks about _his own_ scent rubbing off on Julian, and he can't help rutting his cock on the boy's belly.

It's not what he wants. They're not—close enough. 

Geralt rolls to the side before nudging Julian to do the same. He tears the wretched cloak off him, because it's a test much greater than he can endure. Their bodies fit so incredibly well together when Geralt plasters himself along Julian's back. It feels so perilously _good_. Fuck. Fuck, he could stay like this forever, Julian warm next to him, safe next to him, his nose buried in Julian's soft hair. Soft. Everything about him is soft. Geralt feels momentarily drunk on the closeness. 

"Geralt," Julian breathes, and Geralt has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden tightness behind them. Stupid. Stupid.

He's vaguely aware that he has to move, has to hide the fact that this isn't just about sex. Julian doesn't need to know how much Geralt wants him to stay. He doesn't. He doesn't. 

It's been four days. 

He tightens his arm over Julian's belly before he moves to cup his cock, still hard, wet at the tip and so, so delicious. 

"You too," Julian whispers, even though Geralt is content just bringing him off. 

(And holding him, holding him so very close.)

"Hm."

It'd be so easy for his big hands to grab Julian's bottom, to spread his cheeks and expose him completely. Geralt could—he could crawl down his body and taste him there, make him sob with the pleasure of it. He could make him take a finger or two or his entire hand and he could—

No. No. He can't. 

Julian's prick is so wet in his palm, Geralt has to stop and think whether he'd already spilled. He gives it a squeeze and Julian whimpers. 

His own cock is pressed against Julian's back. He could grind forward and come on the milky skin, probably. Or he could—

" _Oh._ Oh, Geralt," Julian moans when Geralt lifts one of his smooth thighs and slips his heavy cock between them. "Oh, please, do it, I want it so much—" and there's such a fondness in his voice Geralt can barely stand it. 

He feels good around Geralt's cock, even like this. Julian's skin is supple, silky and warm, and when Geralt rolls his hips and his cock drags against Julian's tight balls—

"Gods, gods, Geralt—"

It's not slick enough by half. Geralt wants to slather the boy in expensive oils and rut against him 'til they both spill. He can't, because he doesn't deserve that. But he can rub his palm on the sensitive head of Julian's cock until the boy can't take it anymore. He can move his hips languidly, and he can grow more desperate and speed up as the insides of Julian's thighs grow wet from Geralt's own excitement. 

He doesn't deserve it, but he _can_ do it, so he does. 

"Geralt, Geralt, _witcher_ , I—"

And Julian's thighs tense, squeeze almost painfully tightly as he spills over Geralt's fingers, his pretty little cock pulsing in Geralt's hand, the filthiest moan tearing out of his throat. 

Geralt can feel the beginning of his own release creeping up his spine, so he thrusts faster, lets his now free hand grab harshly at every bit of Julian he can reach. Fuck, he shouldn't. He can't. He hides his face in soft, fragrant hair, hides from himself more than anything. But he's so _close_ , and suddenly there's impossibly smooth skin against his lips, and his tongue darts out to taste it, and Julian, Julian chokes out a,

" _Please_ ,"

and Geralt sets his teeth in the curve of his shoulder as he paints the insides of his thighs white. 

It leaves him shaking with how unreasonably good it is. It leaves him shaking for a much longer time than it should. 

Julian turns in his grasp, until their faces are a hairsbreadth away, and even that seems too far. His lips are _soft soft soft_ against Geralt's. 

"I don't want to go back."

Later, Geralt will blame the words on his pleasure-numb mind. Later, he will ignore the gentle hand resting on his cheek and the thumb rubbing tenderly at a small scar on his chin. Because Geralt isn't _lonely_ , he's just fucking _stupid_ , so he says, 

"Leave with me. Stay with me." 

He can't open his eyes. Can't look and find regret and disgust on that open, trusting face. 

When Julian says " _yes_ ", it's barely perceptible, a puff of air that makes Geralt's ears ring with the promise. 

He pulls Julian so close against him that he's not sure the boy can breathe, but he needs it, he needs this. Once more, Geralt hides his face in Julian's hair, inhales his scent. Finds so much comfort in it that it frightens him. 

It's only then that he allows himself, for the first time, " _Julian._ "

**Author's Note:**

> i've been a mean lean writing machine lately so if yall have any requests you can catch me on my [tumblr](https://dont-you-dare-devil.tumblr.com)


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